


May Not Be In Your Best Interests (Part I)

by drea_rev



Series: May Not Be In Your Best Interests [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 08:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7750279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drea_rev/pseuds/drea_rev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Bitty doesn't take things as well as he does in canon. (Seriously? Some things he goes through would make me go home without looking back, and I hate going home.)</p><p>Starts right after this episode: http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/100536456432</p><p>Features March and April as your friendly neighborhood stoners/unpaid amateur career counselors??</p>
            </blockquote>





	May Not Be In Your Best Interests (Part I)

Part One

 

To say he feels tense is an understatement. Bittle walks into the coaches' room feeling like he doesn't have lungs anymore, or a heart.

They've been replaced by an inner firing squad.

He sits—gingerly—across from the men and tries not to look at the walls full of photos and jerseys. “...It's been a long summer and you've gotten rusty, You and I both know you can't expect a lot of ice time.”

Bittle grasps his biceps and pulls his feet from the floor and sticks them under his chair to avoid shuffling them. “Right,” he stutters, “O-of course--”

“But that's not what we need to talk about.”

That's when Jack's voice begins to echo. Every time he hears it, that rough yell, “THIS ISN'T A JOKE, EITHER GET WITH THE PROGRAM OR QUIT”, it hasn't become fuzzy with time, the way he and Jack may or may not be right now. Bittle hears it so clearly that it even comes with the clatter and slap that makes up Faber's background noise during practice, even hears other conversations that had been going on and fell silent in shock after Jack made his outburst. It sounds fresh, clear, crisp--perfect sound quality, like when you use an app to make a sound file from a song and then use it as your ringtone.

“You've improved a lot since first starting out here...”

They're trying to be nice, Bittle thinks. Woo boy. I've done it this time.

“But you're not a freshman anymore, and you're coming back to us with the same problems.”

Jack screams over and over. Bittle can't breathe. If he breathes, he knows he'll start crying.

And there is no way he is crying in front of Coach Hall and Coach Murray. That went over great with his father.

The men—knowledgeable men who know good and bad hockey when they see it, which makes it so much worse—go on. They agree with the screaming captain in Bittle's head. They magnify his voice. Bittle knows what's coming next, just like he does with checks. Only it slams him much harder than the one that gave him the concussion.

Coach Murray says, “Having you on the roster may not be in your best interest—or the team's.”

“Okay.” Bittle says.

He doesn't cry until the door claps shut behind him. But he has already started when he pushes open the back entrance and slips to a pile on the steps. He pulls his hoodie over himself.

Failure. Again.

 

 

He doesn't know how long he's been sniffling into the crook of his arm when he hears voices. Specifically, female voices. “Um.”

“Hi.”

“We just wanted to know if you were OK.”

He looks up and blinks several times.

Two girls, one in Uggs and one in Timberlands, stand before him. He smells the now-familiar odor of cannabis. Despite their pupils, however, their eyes seem to communicate genuine concern.

Bittle take a steadying breath. Then he rubs at his eye. Then he bursts into a nervous chuckle. “Not really.”

There isn't a lot of space on the narrow staircase, but Bitty is suddenly sandwiched between the pair regardless. “Sounds like you had a rough day. I'm April, and this is March.”

Bitty sighs. “The day wasn't so bad. The past hour or so? Terrible. And...I'm Eric.”

It feels so strange to introduce himself. Liberating, somehow, but strange.

“Do you want to talk about what happened, Eric?” March says slowly.

“I guess I don't think I'm cut out for the hockey team. Actually...this is the second time I've considered...quitting.”

April says, “That sounds really rough. My friend quit the basketball team because it was so much pressure...”

Bittle goes on, somehow pulled forward. “It's just that...I feel really ashamed whenever I make mistakes, you know? And...other people just...agree with that feeling I have about it...and I make a lot of mistakes.”

“But the hockey team always acts so close,” muses March. “I guess they pick on their own when nobody's looking.”

“It's not like that. Well, it is. It's like...well there's this thing called 'chirping',” Bittle says in a rush. “It's supposed to be affectionate...bullying. And sometimes it is...”

Over his head—because the girls are tall—Bittle knows they share a look, but he doesn't know what type of look it is. Until they say in unision, “ _Affectionate bullying_.”

“I even _like_ it sometimes. But...there's a _limit_. And—I got picked on a lot growing up so—even if they don't _mean_ it a certain way, I just--”

“Eric,” March says slowly, “I think if I was on your team, all of them would be dead.”

“I think you've done great by not going to jail yet,” quips April.

“How many people are there on a hockey team? Do you think there's enough room in Lake Quad for a few more bodies?”

“We can dump them behind Murder Stop and Shop.”

Bittle laughs, and breathes again while doing it. “Oh, I—I honestly wish sometimes I was six four and—and _built—_ so I could just—sometimes--” he mimes strangling someone and makes a crushing noise.

March and April burst out laughing too, long, high peals of laughter.

“There's this guy named Jack who is really great at hockey but he—he used to act like he hated me—but then we played better together so we became good friends but—whenever I—play bad, he still looks at me with that old look of disgust on his face. And he—he sort of only likes me when I play well, so--” Bittle finishes, feeling suddenly ashamed of his complaint.

Jack had apologized, hadn't he? And you were supposed to forgive people, weren't you? He couldn't explain why March and April had brought it out of him, that nagging, angry feeling of wishing he was a tough guy who would tell Jack that no, he didn't believe he was sorry enough for pushing Bittle into the situation that earned him a concussion. Jack didn't get it. He never had to act nice and cheerful and agreeable all the time in fear of getting bullied if he showed anger.

“Looks like that's not a very good friend, Eric,” March says, pushing back her hair.

“Well,” Bittle mutters, “I've got to take what I can get.”

“I don't think so,” April said. “What say we walk you back to that gross hockey house and you relax a bit? These people and this sport aren't going to define your whole life.”

Bittle tenses. Thoughts of the questions from Ransom, Holster, the frogs joking about his fainting during practice—and Jack's look—override his need to stress-bake away the afternoon. “I don't know if I want to go back yet.”

“Then why don't you come to Annie's with us?” March says.

“Babe, you have the munchies,” April says, standing and giggling.

Bittle laughed. “I'd love to.”

 

 

It was around 10pm by the time Bittle returned to the Haus. He'd visited the girls' dorm and met several people who watched his vlog. It was amazing what knowing Youtube was there still did for him: no matter what there was at least someplace people would still love you.

“Hey, Bitty,” Lardo said, and he high-fived her as she sat on the Gross Couch (TM) with her macbook. “Jack was looking for you a while ago. Actually, so was shits.”

“I took a detour,” Bittle said, chuckling a little.

“Don't worry so much about practice. You'll do all right.”

It stung, but Bittle would rather walk through hell in Crocs than show it. “Yeah.”

How was he expected to shrug off what Coach Hall and Coach Murray said? He was the only person on the team with a fear of checking. Actually he might be the only person in hockey with a fear of checking. It was as if the Samwell swimming team had someone who was terrified of having her head underwater. He'd have taken the well-intentioned dismissal of his worries better if it had come from someone else who crumpled in the face of physicality, but no one around fit the bill. He fell into bed and watched Youtube baking tutorials with Senor Bun for a while in the dark, ignoring what he knew were Jack's knocks on his door. When it was past midnight, only then did he descend to the kitchen to bake gratitude pies for April and March.

 

 

“Why haven't you been sleeping more?” Jack mutters. “As if I don't see you awake at three in the morning, Bittle--”

“I'm trying hard academically, Jack Zimmermann.”

“And I'm doing that too, eh? Just not sleep depriving myself to do it. You can barely stand.”

Bittle skated away from him. It wasn't much, just a couple of feet, so he could squat and focus on the figure of coach across the rink. The next moment, the drill began, and Bittle pushed his legs hard, trying his best to ignore the fuzzy dimness of the corners of his vision.

Halfway through his knee hit the ice. Damn his lack of booty. It meant his posterior strength was short-lived. He was about to call out an apology to Coach when he felt Jack's hand jerking his left arm up. Hot shame exploded into Bitty's cheeks. He said nothing as he finished the drill and turned. He hadn't liked angry Jack before the concussion, but he just couldn't stand Jack's fake pity.

“You're going to sleep after this,” Jack muttered again.

Bittle pretended not to hear him. Sleeping would mean missing a class and breakfast.

“How many hours have you been awake?” Holster said, skating up to Bittle. He couldn't handle this.

“Y'all, I have a mother.”

Ransom said, “We all do. But she isn't here. And you look like raw meat, Bittle. Leave and get some rest.”

Bittle bristled. He remembered what Coach Hall had said about ice time. He thought of the nagging, shaming feeling that he shouldn't be on the hockey team anyway.

“I'm going to finish practice. I fall down all the time anyway. You're used to it, aren't you? Just ignore it.”

“What's the matter with you?” Ransom said, skating up and looking Bittle up and down. “Dude, if something happened--”

“Bittle,” Jack said from behind him, “If you're still feeling symptoms you think might be related to the concussion you need to tell the coaches.”

Bittle lost it at that point. And growled. He would later blame it on lack of sleep. But as if by magic, it gave him his old teammates back. The chirping was intense. Holster copied his growl, but added the cat-claw feisty gesture. Ransom skated while posed like a tiger. Shitty, who had no idea what it was about, growled at Jack and mimed batting him with paws. Each move Bittle made was responded to by someone with a growl and some guffaws. Bittle was home.

 

 


End file.
